


The King of the Forest

by bucketmouse



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Canon Compliant, Dreams, M/M, Pre-Slash, Symbolism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-18
Updated: 2016-01-18
Packaged: 2018-05-14 19:22:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5755243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bucketmouse/pseuds/bucketmouse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>This was Ronan’s dream, and in Ronan’s dream he was a god. If he wanted to fix the damn deer then he could. </i>
</p>
<p>It's a night like any other when you can pull things from your dreams. Takes place during <i>The Raven Boys</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The King of the Forest

The forest of Ronan’s dreams was the lush green of summer, canopy of leaves above letting only dappled rays of sunlight through the branches, cutting into the otherwise oppressive heat. Red sweet berries grew along the path and Ronan diverted from the walkway between the trees to make his way over to them. Huckleberries, like the kind that grew at the edge of the barn. The damp grass was soft beneath his bare feet as he plucked several of the berries from the branch. Some he ate right away, savoring the slightly tangy sweetness of them, some he held out to the Orphan Girl where she perpetually lurked under the safety of the shadowy tree-line. 

She darted forward with the offering of food, shoving the berries in her mouth right away. Always on guard, even when at peace, Ronan startled as a flash of movement between the trees caught his eye.

“What was-?”

“A deer.” the Orphan Girl replied, mouth full, berry juice staining her cheeks. 

Between the trunks of the trees, Ronan could see it now. A young buck, antlers just coming in, all thin and delicate lines like a painting come to life. Ronan stood very still, watching it nose through the bushes for berries of its own to eat, soft tail flicking to and fro.

“It’s hurt,” Ronan murmured as he watched the way it moved, the way it favored one leg. There was a crust of blood around one eye, one ear was slightly bent as both swiveled to take in the sound of any possible predator nearby. He moved to step towards it. This was Ronan’s dream, and in Ronan’s dream he was a god. If he wanted to fix the damn deer then he could. 

The deer had other thoughts. 

He raised his head, soft brown eyes wide with alarm, catching sight of Ronan. Both froze for a brief moment to size one another up before the deer turned tail and ran. Ronan knew he should let it go, if the stupid imaginary deer wanted to get eaten by the dark things that lurked in the forest of Ronan’s dreams than that was its stupid prerogative, but something in him just couldn’t. He swore and gave chase instead.

“Stop!” he yelled after it, as if it could understand him. Even barefoot, his own barrelling through the underbrush was a loud clumsy thing compared to the lithe gracefulness as the buck soundlessly lept over hidden dangers, even with the injured leg. Branches whipped by Ronan’s exposed arms, small twigs cut at his bare feet, but he ignored the pain and ran. 

The chase seemed to last the whole of the night, hours passing in endless repetition of moments, both lasting longer than they should in such a run. Ronan knew, logically, that it being a dream meant that something would happen just as he was about to give up. They’d be running forever at that rate, though, because once Ronan had began the pursuit it seemed impossible to fathom stopping at all, for any reason. 

Ronan Lynch did not back down from decision he made, no matter how stupid, no matter how ill-thought out. It was not how Niall Lynch had raised his second son. It was not who he was. 

That resolve was good enough to trigger something, trigger a change. The buck leapt over a low line of wild lilac bushes and did not come back up. Ronan cursed in every language he knew, crashing through the flowers and fearing the worst.

Calling it a clearing wasn’t a perfectly accurate description of where he was. It was only a few feet in diameter, enough for Ronan and the deer, collapsed onto the ground but trying to stand, its injured leg no longer supporting it. The tall trees still only let dappled sunlight in, leaving them both in cool shadow. 

“Shh, it’s okay,” Ronan murmured, holding his hands out and approaching slowly, trying to soothe the animal’s mounting panic. “I’m not going to hurt you, I can help. Just - fuck, let me help.” 

Dream logic was a funny thing - the knowing that came with things where there was no indication of them. He _knew_ the deer understood him, understood what he was saying. He also knew it thought he was full of shit by the way it kept struggling to get away. 

“Please, god - fucking hell, let me fucking help you.” Ronan begged. The buck hesitated, meeting his eyes, wary. Considering. 

“Why are you talking to Adam that way?” The orphan girl asked from behind him. Ronan glanced back to where she was making her own sedate way around the flower bushes, ignoring the scattering of blossoms that now surrounded Ronan and the deer. 

The deer?

But when he looked back it wasn’t a deer at all. 

Adam Parrish struggled instead to stand on shaking legs, worn jeans and thirdhand t-shirt stretched over his slim frame.

Of course it was Adam, it had always been Adam. 

The other boy looked up to meet Ronan’s eyes cautiously. It was Adam, but instead of the fierce and cautious bright blue of Adam Parrish his eyes were the soft brown of the deer Ronan thought he was a moment before. Still cautious, still fierce. Delicate, fragile Adam Parrish who would sooner go through things that would break another man than ask for help or allow it. He had the bruise his father left on his face. Ronan had seen it earlier that day, but somehow it seemed even worse than before. The sickly purple color, blurred with red and brown and green and yellow. 

He met Ronan’s eyes without fear, a challenge in them, and Ronan felt something dark and warm curl inside his belly that he refused to acknowledge. 

“Let me… your bruise.” Ronan gestured, the latin that he was speaking so easily a moment before now fumbling, faltering on his tongue. It didn’t matter that Ronan was better at Latin than the real Adam - Dream Adam was always so much better at it than Ronan and judged him harshly for his lack of skill. He gestured to Adam’s face, hoping to get his point across that way. “You need help.”

Adam gave an unimpressed snort, arms crossing over his thin chest, daring Ronan to do better than that. Adam Parrish did not need help, least of all that of Ronan Lynch. 

“Come on, Parrish, don’t be such a shit!” Ronan barked, angry, frustrated. Adam didn’t rise to the bait, and that eviction of rolled eyes and turning away was worse than him getting angry. “Your fucking pride is going to get you fucking killed!”

“It’ll still be mine.” Adam said, voice quiet but steady, accusing in its pinpoint accuracy. “You don’t even understand yourself, what makes you think you can understand me?” 

Ronan had been dismissed, that was clear in the way Adam stood, arms crossed and turned away. His bruise was worse now, taking up half of his face, and he still refused help. Ronan was angry, he wanted to hit something, to knock over every tree in this stupid forest, but none of those would get Adam’s attention now. He should leave, he should wake up, he should do literally anything other than try to keep pressing this case. 

“Please,” Ronan said instead, through gritted teeth. Once that was out, the one word, suddenly the rest came easier. “ _Please_ , allow me.” 

Adam turned, just slightly, to look curiously at Ronan. It struck Ronan, not for the first time, how much Adam always seemed to belong here when he found the dusty-haired boy in his dreams. Ronan might be a king here, but Adam seemed something more than that, and not because he was a dream apparition. He refused to think too much on it, to think about the way the sunlight fell in soft little patches across Adam’s pale skin, the way his cheekbones looked. He uncrossed his arms, letting them fall to his side, and Ronan made to cautiously approach him again. 

He could count every tiny freckle across Adam’s nose, this close. He didn’t let himself think of them, think of comparing them to the real thing and knowing it would be a perfectly accurate copy. So close, Adam had to tilt his head up slightly to look at Ronan. His eyes were his own again, cautious, expecting. Ronan had begged, he had better deliver. 

Ronan felt his stomach clench in strange knots as he reached out to gently touch his calloused fingers to the edge of Adam’s face, the edge of the bruise there. He felt keyed up like he was going to race, like he was going to fight, unable to pull his eyes away from the expectant gaze of the Dream Adam. There is a hissing in the woods, the flap of dangerous wings, but all Ronan could hear was the blood pounding in his ear and the soft intake of breath from Adam. Where Ronan’s fingers touched along his skin, the bruise faded. He traced the outline of it, moving slowly inwards until the skin under his hand was perfectly unblemished, the flawless porcelain Adam should appear to be. 

He needed to remove his hand, but his thumb kept tracing above the soft and fine hair of Adam’s eyebrow. Adam let his eyes slide shut, the show of effortless trust like a punch to Ronan’s gut. The breathless sigh Adam gave next was too much. 

The sunlight vanished as the darkness in the trees fell down upon them, feathers and sharp things thirsty for blood. 

 

Ronan woke up with nothing in his hands except a few crushed lilac flowers in his tightly clenched fist, long scratches up and down his arms. Some bled faintly, red dots speckling along his bedsheet. He needed water, he needed to not think. He threw the flowers into Chainsaw’s cage and stalked out to the living room where Gansey was working on his model Henrietta. Gansey gave a worried glance at the marks on Ronan’s arm.

“Noah?” He asked, worried. Ronan gave a shrug, wordlessly stalking past him to the bathroom/kitchen/laundry room to fill one of the plastic slurpee cups from 7-11 with water and drag it back to his room, slamming the door behind him. 

 

Later that day into early evening found Ronan sitting his his car, watching out the back window as Adam approached the double wide that Ronan and Gansey had yet to convince him to be free from. He expected the usual, to go home, to drink away the anxiety and anger that flooded him the few times he was the one to drive Adam home. 

When he saw Adam fall, something changed. His hand tightened on the steering wheel, his foot slammed on the break. 

He was done. Adam might never forgive him, but it was a risk he was prepared to take.


End file.
